


we'd shiver as the screen lit up

by cherryvanilla



Category: Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You really liked Notre Musique?" Written September 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'd shiver as the screen lit up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at inception_kink

They’ve just wrapped press in Paris and Joe has at least six hours until his flight. Tom saunters up behind him as they exit the hotel where the latest interview had taken place. They have cars bringing them back to their respective hotels, airport, what have you… but as everyone else says their good-byes, Tom appears to have other plans.

“Fancy a film?”

Joe quirks at eyebrow in his direction. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Joseph,” Tom gasps with mock horror, then straightens his back and stretches a little. “It’s a nice day, I believe we both have some time to spare and we’ve just been talking of French cinema for the last 15 minutes. How’s a Classic at Cinémathèque Française sound?”

Joe glances at his watch. “I don’t know..”

“Have you ever been?”

“Actually, no.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “You can’t visit Paris and not go to the Cinémathèque at least once. Not to mention the immense history of the place.” Before Joe has a chance to respond, Tom is back in the hotel chatting up the Concierge. Joe watches his profile as he flashes a brilliant smile at the middle-aged man and turns on his heel, now carrying a few sheets of paper.

“Alright, we’ve got your Godard, Truffaut, Renoir, Demy..”

“Let me see those.”

Joe nearly snatch the papers out of Tom’s hands, his eyes scouring the list. Naturally they’re showing the 50th restoration of À bout de souffle (although it’s a showing of Le mépris particularly catches his eye). And then there’s La règle du jeu, Les Bonnes Femmes, Les quatre cents coups, and Jules et Jim. Joe searches until he finds what he was looking for; what made him grab the paper to begin with: Jacques Demy’s Les parapluies de Cherbourg. He saw it for the first time years ago at The Film Forum; all it did was aide his ever growing love for musicals.

“How about this one?”

Tom laughs when he sees what Joe is pointing to but, it’s a fond laugh and warmth coils in Joe’s belly at the sound.

“I should have known. After all, you’re the next incarnation of Gene Kelly.” Joe swats at the hand that’s ruffling his hair and they start down the street.

“You actually enjoyed Notre musique?” Tom asks as they pass some quaint shops and outdoor cafes. The Cinémathèque is actually only a few blocks away and they’re even more in luck that the next showing starts in 30 minutes.

“Yeah, you didn’t?”

Tom shakes his head and makes a small, negative sound. “He’s grown too cynical as of  
late. I prefer his passion for cinema in general. Like in Masculin Féminin when Léaud goes up to the projectionist and quotes the aspect ratio rules.”

Joe laughs. “That is classic. I remember sitting in theater at the French Institute in New York while I was at Columbia, mesmerized by a quote during that same scene: “ ‘It wasn't the film we had dreamed, the film we all carried in our hearts, the film we wanted to make and secretly wanted to live.’ I would scribble that in notebooks.”

Joe’s chuckle is a bit self-deprecating and when he turns around he notices Tom has stopped and his staring at him. “What?”

“You’re something.” The smile he receives is small and secretive; the voice full of warmth. Joe’s stomach does another strange flip. This needs to stop, stat.

If they walk a little too close together whilst sharing their favorite parts of Masculin Féminin and Bande à part on a street that isn’t terribly crowded, well, that was no one’s business but their own.

(())

At the Cinémathèque, Joe studies the architecture of the building. It’s post-modern and classy. He orders an espresso while Tom opts for a small bottle of Perrier. The seats are velvet and plush, like the old Ziegfeld and there’s a curtain that pulls back to reveal the screen; Joe has always loved that. They sit middle and center because no respectable cinephile would sit anywhere else. There’s only one other couple seated in the back directly behind them. The film starts and Joe’s already done with his espresso; Tom has discarded his beverage as well. Tom has also angled in his direction, sitting as close as he can and definitely closer than necessary. Joe idly wishes he’d ordered food so he could at least have something to do with his hands besides rubbing them along the seams of his pants.

Suddenly, hot breath is in his ear. “I love the colors in this film, don’t you?”

Joe involuntarily shudders and shifts slightly in his seat. “Yeah, me too.”

He’s not one to talk during a film. He likes being transported to another place. Joe knows enough French that he doesn’t always need to read the subtitles. When he’d decided to major in the language, his mom had asked. His response was simple and made perfect sense in his world: “So I can watch my favorite films without subtitles.” It had mostly worked out aside from that not graduating thing.

He risks a sideways glance at Tom. His eyes are shining in the darkness of the theater, intent on screen. His fingers are fidgeting on his face; rubbing at his nose, poised over his lips. It’s a habit Joe has gotten used to during their time on set and at press junkets. He’s unsure if it’s a nervous tick or just a general Tom quirk. The first shot of Catherine Deneuve fills the screen before them, framed against bright umbrellas in contrast to a rain slickened street. Joe decides to break his no talking rule. “She’s beautiful in this.”

He see Tom’s smile in the darkness and hears a shuffling sound as he adjusts in his seat again. Again, a mouth is right against his ear. “She’s beautiful in everything.”

Joe agrees with this statement but he can’t speak as his mouth has suddenly gone dry. There’s honestly no good reason for Tom’s invasion of personal space. Joe hadn’t moved and Tom had heard his whisper perfectly. He decides to shake it off. On screen, Guy and Geneviève embrace and kiss. Joe watches her intently; she looks lighter than air and so utterly happy.

Tom leans in again, this time angling his face toward Joe’s neck, whispering against his skin, “I love that it’s less of a musical and more of an opera, you know? Sheer genius.”

“Yeah,” Joe gulps. The hair on his neck is standing up and his skin has goose bumps, he’s sure of it.

“What’s wrong?” Now Tom’s nose is brushing just under his jaw. A glance from his peripheral vision reveals the man is completely slouched in his seat and unnecessarily wrinkling his khakis.

“What are doing?” Joe hisses, because seriously, enough is enough.

“Discussing the film,” Tom breathes and then his right hand finds its way onto Joe’s thigh; it feels like a ton of bricks. Joe’s synapses are exploding. Guy is on screen with his Aunt Elise. Tom’s fingers are splayed over the fabric of Joe’s pants, slowly clenching, and Tom’s mouth is… open and moist and pressing something akin to a kiss onto the feverish skin of neck.

Joe clears his mind long enough to get out, “thought you said we weren’t going to that kind of film?” He’s proud of his levity because it’s all downhill from here.

Tom’s quiet huff of laughter against his shoulder blade sends shivers down his spine. “Change of plans. You quoted Godard to me. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.”

His words are barely formed; just huffs of air that carry only the small distance between them. From behind, it probably looks as though Tom has fallen asleep on Joe’s shoulder and that’s perfectly fine by him.

Tom’s hand has inched its way up to Joe’s crotch, gently exploring his cock through fabric that wasn’t this tented a minute ago. Joe tries to concentrate over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Oh? Is that all it takes, then?” He gives himself another mental fist pump, yet all is lost as Tom’s mouth descends on the base of his neck, sucking hard. His mouth and tongue are warm, so fucking warm and Joe’s hand instantly covers Tom’s, pressing into the friction as his hips lift slightly on their own accord. They both let out a slow moan in unison.

“God, you feel spectacular,” Tom moans as his mouth sucks some more, moving higher, stubble brushing against Joe’s jaw. They can both feel the heat of his erection and grind down hard against it, causing a delicious mix of pleasure and pain. Joe’s hand leaves Tom’s to reach across the seat as covertly as possible. On screen, Guy and Geneviève are at the theater. He puts his arm around her and sticks himself with a pin from her dress.

Joe’s left hand is palming the bulge in Tom’s khakis; it’s awkward and he can’t quite find the right angle. He wants to pull him down to the floor and cover his body with his own, kiss him till he can’t breathe.

Tom groans at the touch, and then pops the button of Joe’s pants. “Tom, we ca-”

“Shhhh..”

Joe’s tilts his head to the side, allowing Tom more access. Tom shifts upward, and there’s a moment of repositioning and the thought of ‘no way in hell this couple behind us does not know what we’re doing’ and then Tom’s body is angled inward toward Joe’s and Joe’s palm is flat against Tom’s cock, rubbing slowly while his own zipper is pulled down, and nothing fucking matters.

“Holy shit,” he breathes as Tom’s fingers slide beneath his boxers. He’s only done this with one other guy when he was drunk at a party and has never really wanted it sober so why this is happening now is beyond him. He blames Paris and French New Wave. Yes, that’s it exactly.

“Quote me something…”

It takes Joe a second to understand. Then he laughs to himself. Tom is a weird one, alright. Instead, he sings softly in French, following the dialogue from the film. He has the soundtrack and basically knows it all by heart. He times it just right so it’s echoing on the screen.

“Oh, fuck,” Tom breathes, and catches his lips in a searing kiss that makes Joe’s cock leap in his hand and his palm grind down on the answering erection. Joe licks into Tom’s mouth, and it’s dirty and clumsy and devastatingly perfect. They break away, breathing against one another’s lips. Joe continues singing softly.

“You have a gorgeous voice,” Tom mutters, nipping at his lips and then diving in again as if he’s starving. This time his tongue fucks Joe’s mouth viciously and the movements of his wrist increase. Tom rubs at the tip of Joe’s cock, spreading the fluid he finds down his shaft as Joe’s other hand comes around to fist in Tom’s hair, holding him close, tongues battling for dominance.

“Tom..” he breathes, when they break apart.

Tom stares at him levelly. “Any chance of you returning the favor?” he asks lightly, giving Joe’s cock one long, meaningful stroke.

Joe’s gaze wavers and he looks down between them, at their surroundings. It’s not something he’d ever imagine himself doing in public but they’ve already gone this far and really, he’s being rather selfish here. He undoes the khakis deftly and gently eases his hand in. He wasn’t prepared for the heat and quite frankly, the length. Tom lets out a low, unsteady groan and captures Joe’s lips again. They stroke each other with purpose, matching the rhythm as best they can given the awkward angle. Joe pushes his hips up, sighing around Tom’s lips. Tom’s hand is in his hair and now he’s halfway on top of him. Joe spares a thought at the couple. If they’re still there he doesn’t understand why they haven’t called security yet… although they are slouched pretty low in the seats right now and this is Paris so who knows. He can’t think of it anymore, not when Tom’s hand is curving around the base of his skull and Tom’s fingers are on his cock and Tom’s tongue is licking behind his teeth as if he’s trying to uncover hidden secrets.

Joe breaks away and Tom immediately finds his throat. On screen, it’s Joe’s favorite part of the first act. They’re walking back down the rain-covered pavement; the streetlights glowing, causing a dark bluish light. The scene cuts to the Umbrella shop and Geneviève says Guy wants to marry her. It’s the infliction of that line that gets Joe every time. Now, a mouth nibbling at his ear and fingers flying over his dick heightens it all.

“I wanna make you come. Wanna suck you so hard.” Joe shudders and bucks his hips, wishing for that right now, can almost feel Tom’s warm, wet mouth on his cock. “Yeah, come on, darling, come for me.”

He bites his lips so hard and lets out a strangled cry, pumping Tom even harder, fingers slick with pre-cum. It might be the use of ‘darling’ that makes him come; maybe not. Either way he does, and Tom covers his mouth again throughout it, just as his own orgasm hits and Joe feels the hot fluid rushing over his fingertips.

They stroke one another through the last of the aftershocks, licking lazily at one another’s mouths, pulling back until just their tongues are brushing.

Tom rustles around in his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief; Joe is incredibly grateful. After a hasty clean up, they settle down to regain composure and most of all, oxygen. Onscreen, Geneviève and her mother are arguing while awaiting their dinner guest. Joe steals glances at Tom out of the corner of his eye. Tom settles in closer again, and let’s his head nearly drop on Joe’s shoulder. Their breathing is nowhere near under control.

“I think you should quote French cinema to me more often.”

Joe’s laugh is a low, breathless rumble. “I think you’re dangerous and need to be kept away from cinematiques.”

“Je pense que tu es belle,” Tom responds, resolutely, and slides his index finger into the  
finger into the palm of Joe’s hand.

Joe’s mouth opens and closes. He lets the colors on the celluloid envelope him. He squeezes lightly on the finger that has wormed its way into the hollow space of his hand. He can feel Tom’s smile fixed on him and swallows around the unexpected, but not entirely unpleasant, lump in his throat. Joe has to be on a plane in a few hours. He desperately needs a shower. But right now all he can see is Catherine Deneuve, all he can feel is Tom, and all he can think is Léaud saying, “We control our thoughts which mean nothing, and not our emotions which mean everything.”

[end]


End file.
